The Act of Counting
by fierysuzaku
Summary: It became a habit. A stupid habit he did not want to have nor acknowledge. He hated it.


He didn't really know what happened or what started it but he could feel his insides churn. His teeth were clenched. His mind throbbed with increasing cadence, something, someone was screaming at him. It wasn't right.

_It hurts. _

Everything hurts...

"E-England... Ar-Arthur..."

And he was all alone.

He choked out, screamed and begged over and over again.

In anger?

In denial?

In hope?

Or was it fear.

He doesn't really know because everything was being mixed up and it confused him.

_His_ memories.

_His _ideals.

Combining with _their_ memories.

_Their_ ideals.

The pain was excruciating. He could feel his insides ripping apart.

_Make it stop. Please, make it stop._

The tears fell in torrents and he couldn't breathe – he choked out sobs as the throbbing got worse and worse until...

"I want to be free."

* * *

He was going to be sick. As if fighting against Arthur wasn't enough, he had to fight _him_ as well.

"Mattie," he reached out (or at least tried to) only to be met by a cold harsh glare. So much, like England yet not.

He expected protest. A bit of convincing. Matthew was his brother, it was a given whose side he was supposed to take.

Or at least he thought so.

"Just come with me. We can be free together. We –"

The bullet barely missed him as the shot rang through the air. There was no room for convincement or anything of the like, Matthew's choice was clear as daylight.

"Shut up," his twin growled, surprising him at the rough tone – the almost feral quality and anger in his timbre was like a whiplash that froze him on the spot.

How such once gentle and loving features twist and darken.

So foreign yet so recognizable all at once.

A flash. A memory. Something chillingly familiar. Only instead of violet, it was green. Dark poisonous green orbs of fire burning with indignation and betrayal.

He had seen his brother in a lot of ways but _never_ this.

Never like _this_.

"Please listen to me," he called out once more, his tone thin and almost close to begging.

_I don't want to fight you._

_I don't want to lose you too._

_I don't want to be alone._

The words never had the chance to leave his lips.

"Get the fuck out of my land America."

_It's Alfred. You never called me America._

* * *

The war was over and he was crying.

England. The Great British Empire was on his knees.

Crying like a child.

Like a heartbroken child. Fragile and defenseless.

_I did this._

He felt the rush of pride and triumph filling him, drowning him in its warmth. Sickeningly sweet and exhilarating, the thrum of victory echoed throughout the lands, _his_ lands, _his_ and no one else's – he was _free_.

He, America, won.

"You were so big."

The words left him before he could stop them. The memories of the man and not the nation clawed at him, reminding him of sweet innocence and smiles. Arthur's smiles. Smiles he may never get to see again. The pain and realization rammed into him, almost sending him to his knees. A part of him was screaming. Crying out.

_I don't want to leave._

Emeralds and sapphires met.

Right then and there, he knew what he had to do for the pain to stop.

He cocked his rifle and fired.

Twice.

* * *

His first fight with Canada ended of defeat. His memory, clear as morning sunshine, until now he could still hear the heavy crunch of his boots as he took his retreat, until now, he could still feel how a part of him crumbled with every step he had taken.

On that day, he wished to never see such harsh cold violets look towards him like that ever again. It was a hopeful wish, a wish destined to be unfulfilled so long as his brother stands by Britain. He knew this but still he naively hoped that his brother would _at least _stay out of the battlefield.

"Why? Why Mattie?"

His capital was burning. Someone was burning his capital.

Someone was in his heart and he's trying to burn it to the ground.

"An eye for an eye they always say."

The cold cruelty in the tone sent shivers down his spine.

His vision was blurry and he could distinctly feel something trailing down his cheeks.

Wet. Hot. Burning him in their wake.

_It's because of the smoke. The soot is getting to me. It's this damn fire eating up my capitol. _

Not because of _this_.

Not because of _him_.

"How could you!"

"Why the hell not? You started this war remember when _your_ men, _your_ people burned down York. So do not _dare_ ask me why, America, and that's Canada to you," he corrected with a nonchalance that was too damn uncannily familiar to miss. It appeared that his brother took more of England than he had let on.

His trail of observations froze when he heard the gun cock up.

"It was his fault to begin with! He was messing in my trades with France. He also took _my_ people into _his_ Navy! I am not his colony anymore! He can't just impose himself like that. I am a free nation!" he cried out with distinct mix of anger and frustration.

It wasn't fair.

_You're my brother. You're supposed to be on __**my**__ side not his!_

"I don't care!" the twin shouted back with more volume than anticipated, his red coat gleaming bright against the flames.

The world was getting twisted by the second. His brother, soft quiet Mattie, was screaming at him of all people.

"Matthew, _please_."

"It's Canada!"

"No! You are my brother! I am not calling you anything else." He was stubborn. Unyielding. Because he knew that if he let this one thing pass, it'll be gone forever.

For a moment, silence reigned.

"You've hurt _him_." The words were barely audible but it carried enough intensity to stop whatever words that was to spill from his mouth.

"You've hurt him so much. _Not_ England. _Not_ Britain. _Him_. Arthur loved you like his own. Trusted you more than anyone of us. And you just threw it to his face. I will _never_ forgive you for that Alfred. Brother or not."

With those words, Matthew left, leaving him in silence with nothing but black sooty smoke and the voices of his people to keep him company.

* * *

It was naive of him. So stupid and hopeful of him to assume the best when Arthur finally decided to talk to him – they were allies now after all – everything was going to be fine.

The Special Relationship.

He liked the sound of that.

They found themselves sitting in the unusually vacated common room (how was that possible, he did not know) and as they waited for one to break the awkward silence, he couldn't help but notice the changes in them.

Both of them looked older nowadays. Hardships and wars had touched them. Tainted and scarred them both. But Arthur even more.

The Blitz. The economy. Everything was crashing down and the elder nation's shoulders weren't strong enough to hold. England was falling apart.

_This is my chance._

A chance to help. To support. To save.

Be the hero he had envisioned himself to be.

"Everything's gonna be fine. Trust me," he assured, hoping to alleviate the shadows that seem to take upon the older nation's features.

Two words. Two simple words. That's all it took for England to let out a laugh.

England, not Arthur, because Arthur would never be this cynical and cruel to laugh at him.

Laughing so mockingly that it had made his insides twist and regret of such carelessness.

"_Trust_. Pray tell, America. How can I exactly trust _you_?" his tone was sweet and thick with a sarcastic undertone that even _he_ can sense.

"We are allies now," he reasoned only to earn another bout of that disdainful laughter.

His heart clenched a little. Break and crumble bit by bit.

_Do I have nothing left of you?_

"So? Alliances change. This so-called relationship of ours may not even last a decade. In fact, it may not even last through the damn war," England pointed out, venom clear in his tone.

"B-But your boss said that – "

"Yes, my _boss_. But what about _me_? Did you ever stop and think about that? Because personally, I really don't care what others say. _I_ don't trust _you_," he emphasized making the young nation realize just how petty his former caretaker can be.

_Of course, it'll always come back to that damn war!_

"Are you fucking kidding me!"

He snapped. Blue fire burning as he bristled at his old guardian.

"Are you seriously that petty? Aren't you supposed to be over it by now? The revolution happened so long ago. Why can't you just– "

"Forget?" A thick brow was raised as if in question when in truth it felt like being a humored child.

"Yes. Why? Why can't you just move on? It was something I needed to do. It was something my people needed to do. You must understand as a nation." He was exasperated, tired and frustrated.

_Why can't things go back to the way they were?_

"Because I can't America. I can't because it is against my nature as a nation to do so," England sighed, boredom clear upon his features that made something in him burn with a fervor.

"And as Arthur? Does Arthur forgive what England doesn't?" he countered with a sharp bite, making the older nation's eyes narrow like a snake – only in this case, the poison was reflected in his eyes.

Green.

Bright.

Acidic.

"Let me correct you there, brat. _England_ has _long_ forgiven such pettiness. It's _Arthur_ who hasn't."

"I don't understand," his brows furrowed in confusion as the once burning emotions within lowered to a simmer.

"Allow me to explain then. Nations aren't the most forgiving or the most forgetful creatures America. We cannot forget, we can only _pretend_ that we can. And with such vivid memories, we can rarely fully forgive for it is ingrained within our people, our lands and you would probably know by now that humans could hold such strong grudges that it manages to transcend _generations_.

"Our feelings and actions are quite dependent on the desires of our people, these are especially prominent as you grow and comprehend the things around you. But as one _matures_, you'll eventually be able to recover and reconstruct your _own_ personality. So as to answer your previous quandary, I, _me_, the person _not_ the nation still does not forgive _you_ America.

"Why? Because aside from the fact that I had my trust and affections trampled upon and cast aside like rubbish by the very child I've raised and loved. I also find you arrogant, naive, foolish with your claims of being the hero and all that shite," he drawled ignoring the brief slip of crudeness that made the boy wince.

"Then you do understand that it wasn't really me that day," he inserted hoping to shake some sense into the man.

The said man laughed. _Again_.

"Who the bloody hell do you think you're fooling? I've raised you remember? Do you really think that I cannot distinguish _you_ from _him_. That day, it wasn't America who pulled the trigger and it wasn't England that got shot."

He stiffed at the words as the truth crashed into him, shattering the wall of denial he had diligently built for years.

"Oh yes, two shots fired. One for me, Arthur and another for Alfred, better known to be now as _British_ America."

He gaped and gasped. His mouth trying desperately to deny and refute such claims.

No words came for his rescue.

"The day you were born was the day my son, my little brother died. And now, I see nothing but a brat who had developed too fast and too strong that his own mentality wasn't able to cope up with the growth.

"True, I admit it. We are in need of America's assistance, _your_ assistance. And we are thankful that you've decided to lend us your strength and resources but the facts remain unchanged. The _only_ real reason why you formally broke your oh, so precious neutrality was because of Pearl Harbor.

"You didn't come for anything else. I'm not stupid or deluded in that aspect. And now, you think that just because you've attained Britain's acknowledgement and allegiance meant I could trust you. _Please_, even France is more trustworthy than you!"

"That's not true and you know it!" he refuted in equal fire finally finding his voice after the disclosure.

"You two _hate_ each other. The Entente Cordiale isn't enough to hold off _centuries_ of animosity between you. As you've say, our kind can never fully forgive," he pointed out only to be met by the infamous veneer of British countenance.

"So you do avail the use of your head sometimes. I must say, I expected less," he sighed.

"Arthur..."

"Do not use my name with such familiarity. You have long relinquished that right. It's England. Britain. Mr. Kirkland if you must, but _never_ Arthur," he snapped making the young nation wince.

"_France_ calls you Arthur," he pointed out, bitterness coating his tone.

"Your point? My relationship with Francis has nothing to do with the discussion at hand. The fact remains that you actually expect me to trust you when you have done nothing to earn it in the first place."

"Have I earned nothing when it comes to you?"

He was tired. _So_ damn tired. Everything he does seemed so insignificant in making a dent on the wall around the Englishman's heart.

"As a nation? Plenty. You've earn respect for that. Even I, albeit begrudgingly would give you that. But you as an individual. None at all." With those words he took leave, Alfred didn't even try to stop him. But right before the door closed he made his final parting.

"You may be a hero to the world America but not to me. _Never_ to me."

* * *

It became a habit. A stupid habit he did not want to have nor acknowledge. It started out as a formality really, a process he just needed to deal with because of his boss. It was a habit he hated because it became a necessity for him, an ingrained response that seemed to gnaw at him from the inside if not done right and properly.

Counting losses.

It was something he learned to do after so many wars.

_Heroes aren't supposed to lose._

_Heroes __**always**__ win._

The naiveties of the statement, it made him want to laugh and bang his head against the wall because he could feel himself countering it. Disputing it.

_Win what?_

What kind of hero kills?

What kind of hero lies and steals?

What kind of hero inspires fear instead of hope?

_You're no hero. _

A bitter chuckle escaped.

_Since when did I become so cynical?_

"I hate it when Arthur's right."

He never really thought about it back then but if he counted the losses, he sometimes questioned himself if the path he had chosen was well worth the freedom he had gained. He wondered if the sweetness of freedom was worth the mounting losses, he had collected. The loss of that warmth and kindness which only family could bring. The loss of that smile and happiness only Arthur could make.

_Just how much did I lose that day I wonder?_

**-END-**

**A/N:** I apologize for the OCness and canon deviation along with the overlooked grammar mistakes... This is more of my own twisted take on America and England's relations along with a bit of Canada. I know, Canada isn't really himself here... but what do you expect? They were in a war and _he_ was being attacked.

I've incorporated the following historical events: The Revolutionary War. Invasion of Canada (1775, American defeat). War of 1812 with mentions of the Battle of York (American victory) and the burning of Washington (British victory). World War II was also included.

Comments would be lovely.

**P.S.** I own nothing nor do I claim expertise on the historical events mentioned.


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